


fly me home

by klixxy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Awkward Kageyama Tobio, Character Death, Character Study, Crying Kageyama Tobio, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Heavy Angst, Hurt Kageyama Tobio, Kageyama Tobio Angst, Kageyama Tobio is Bad at Feelings, Kageyama Tobio-centric, Like, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, POV Kageyama Tobio, Run-On Sentences, Sad Kageyama Tobio, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, actually, ch 387 of the manga killed me, i've played volleyball like once, it actually killed me, kind of?, like actually someone help this poor bby, unrealistic descriptions of volleyball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23591188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klixxy/pseuds/klixxy
Summary: The gym smells like fresh wood and worn sneakers, and eventually, it starts to smell like home; linoleum floors and high ceilings, screeching shoes and towering nets.The lights are bright, the smiles brighter, the ball in his palm warm. His whole body is tense and trembling with barely contained euphoria.It feels like home.Or, ch387 of the manga absolutely d e s t r o y e d me as a Kageyama stan and when I realized that there was like, two fics that even remotely talked about that I was like; no. Why is there nothing? And then proceeded to spit out this dumb fic that was supposed to be like, 3k words but somehow ended up as 8k.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Kageyama Tobio & Kageyama Kazuyo, Kageyama Tobio & Karasuno Volleyball Club
Comments: 35
Kudos: 495





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. 
> 
> So, because of this whole Corona virus thing I finally got a chance to catch up on the Haikyuu manga and frick man. Chapter 387 absolutely killed me. It actually killed me. I'm writing this as a ghost. Like, as a Kageyama-stan, why the frick are there no fics that go into detail about this? Like, frick that chapter was emotional.
> 
> Anyways, so MANGA SPOILERS AHEAD, DEPRESSION AND IMPLICATIONS OF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AHEAD. Also, uh, MINOR CHARACTER DEATH TOO. It's not violent tho so.
> 
> So yeah.
> 
> Fellow fanfic writers, pls write more about my bby Kageyama. He deserves the world.
> 
> Recommended playlist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lk1vwYga02Q  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQ2it_oB0WA

The first time Kageyama Tobio picks up a volleyball, feels the delicate hardness beneath his fingers, the satisfying curve of the ball, the comforting weight of it in the groove of his palm, is before he can even really remember. 

His sister tells him all about it, later, when they have moved passed the heaviness that permeates, congeals in the air every time they meet gazes. 

She tells him how he had somehow gotten ahold of her volleyball, how Kazuyo had sworn he had only turned away for a second and laughed and laughed and laughed when he, that little toddler who could barely hold the ball, had held on to it tightly like it had been the funniest thing in the world.

_(His heart squeezes, like a star about to burst, every time he hears the story, no matter how many times she tells it to him.)_

He follows Kazuyo everywhere- to the gym, to the grocery store- wherever he goes, Kageyama follows. 

The gym smells like fresh wood and worn sneakers, faintly like sweat, and eventually, it starts to smell like home; linoleum floors and high ceilings, screeching shoes and towering nets. The lights are bright, the smiles brighter, the ball in his palm warm. His whole body is tense and trembling with barely contained euphoria. 

It is an array of yellows, browns, blacks, it’s a place with barely any color at all and yet color bursts from its seams. There’s color, when the ball hits the ground, color, when it twirls, high, high above him in the air like a second sun, there’s color, in every movement, every exhilarated shout.

There is color, every time he touches the ball, every time he scores a point, every time he just simply _plays._

It feels like home.

Kazuyo smiles brightest, then. When Kageyama holds the volleyball in his hands and laughs like everything is right with the world, Kazuyo smiles, and he smiles like that singular moment in time is all he ever needs.

_(Later, Kageyama thinks back on that moment and thinks: Are you proud of me, grandfather? Would you be proud of me now? Would you? Would you?)_

His parents are never home. It’s started to become something of a fact. For the Kageyama siblings, the sun is bright, the sky is blue, and their parents are never there. 

And sometimes it’s lonely. He hears that other kids talk about their parents like they’re there; like they hug them and kiss them and comfort them when they wake up in the middle of the night and there are shadows in the corners of their rooms, fears, roaring in their minds. 

Kageyama wakes up in the middle of the night, but his parent’s rooms are empty. 

It’s always been.

It’s empty halls and empty rooms, empty calls and empty hopes, and on the first day of school, Kageyama looks around, at all of the other children, clinging to their mother’s legs, hugging their fathers like their lives depend on it, and turns back, for just a moment.

Kageyama’s parents are never home.

But when he turns back, and searches for a familiar face, for a small slice of comfort in this unfamiliar school, this unfamiliar yard… but when he turns back, and just _looks_ across those few yards, so long and yet so short, there, at the front gate of his new school, Kazuyo stares back at him, and he smiles.

He smiles.

Kageyama had learned very early on what it felt like to be lonely. 

He’d had to.

But now, every time he looks back, Kazuyo is there. 

He’s _there._

And for Kageyama, that’s more than enough.

…

He runs. 

It’s become routine. 

Every morning, the Kageyama household wakes with the rays of the sun, the honey-gold light that pours in through the windows as the sun alights the sky on fire. They brush their teeth and comb their hair and then they burst out of the door, and they run. They run, and they feel the wind in their hair and the laughter atop their tongue. They run, and they smile as they yell challenges over their shoulders, golden morning light turning their blue eyes orange and their blue hair white like silver. 

They run, and they feel _alive._

The neighborhood streets are made of concrete, and the slap of his shoes against the ground ring in his ears like bells, and when he hears the pair of shoes behind him, the huffing and puffing that he knows must be Kazuyo, when he sees Miwa, hair dancing in the wind as she runs in front of him, his heart bursts, like a supernova, like a star, as it explodes in a collision of light and color and all the things that life can never explain.

There’s a burning sensation in his legs, in his lungs, in the rapid beat of his heart, but when Kazuyo beams and ruffles his hair, everything is worth it.

…

When night falls and the moon blends the sky with a palette of silver and grey and breathtaking midnight black, Kageyama skips into his backyard. The grass is prickly under his bare feet, but the cool night air swirls elegantly around him and it feels like it's buoying him up, like he could float away, right this instant, and fly among the clouds and the stars.

They practice receives in the darkness of the night, but they exclaim and they laugh like there’s nobody there, like it isn’t so dark that they can barely see, and there’s Miwa, Miwa and Kazuyo, shaded with the yellow-orange light from their living room that cascades out of the glass windows like a pool of the brightest honey, hair darker than black in the night, eyes shining with silver. 

It’s these little moments, these short and yet prolonged expanses of time, when it feels like he’s finally found a place that he can call home.

_(He thinks back, years later, and wonders if he can ever find a place where he can belong again, a place that he could once again call ‘home’.)_

…

He plays volleyball, revels in the pleasant sting of the ball against his skin, the feeling of flying, hanging in the air for a moment, just a moment, as the ball drifts along, hitting the floor with a satisfying smack. 

The moment when he twirls the ball in his hands, the whole world just… shifts. Everything is brighter, more focused. He throws, his arm swinging up, as the ball flings higher and higher, closer and closer to the sky, to the deep blue forever that expands farther than he could ever imagine. Then, he throws his arms back, and as the ball falls down again, he runs. He runs, and for a moment, he can feel something twitching with anticipation, the wings in his back threatening to burst. 

For a moment, he feels free. 

The ball falls, and as it hangs there suspended in the air, he leaps, spreads his wings, and he _plays._

He _laughs._

He _lives._

As the ball goes flying, everything explodes in a cacophony of sound, like the world is unraveling for him, for this one second, when all his troubles melt away, when he forgets everything else.

He loves it. 

He loves it more than anything else in the world.

…

“You’re not playing?” He asks, and Miwa shakes her head, rolls her eyes, like it’s obvious.

“I’m busy now,” She states, hands on her hips and phone in her pocket. “I don’t have time.”

And Kageyama wants to say, _“but you do”_ , wants to say, _“come play with me”_ , wants to say, _“don’t you love volleyball?”_ , but he sees the disinterest in her face, sees the bored tone in her voice, and feels… lost.

“You don’t want to play?” He asks, and he feels so, so, confused. The world feels lighter, when he plays, brighter, when he plays, like it’s worth living, when he feels the weight of the ball, comfortable in his palm. He doesn’t understand. Why wouldn’t she want to play? Why wouldn’t she want to feel… real? Happy? 

Alive?

“Yeah.” She says, and suddenly it feels tense. It feels like he’s staring at a stranger. 

Miwa purses her lips. She looks uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” She repeats, averting her eyes. “I don’t really… like it anymore.” And then, in a split second, there’s a thousand miles of distance between them.

“Oh…” He replies, because he doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He stares down at the volleyball within his fingers, round and bright and real.

 _“Don’t do this,”_ he wants to say. _“Don’t leave me.”_

But the words never leave his mouth, and the door shuts in front of him.

…

Miwa quits volleyball.

He runs with Kazuyo every morning. He practices receives with him at night. There’s an emptiness where she used to be with them. She’s not dead; he sees her at home and while walking to school. They eat together and live together, but she doesn’t talk as much anymore, and when she does, it feels awkward. 

She doesn’t laugh like she used to either.

It feels oddly like betrayal. Like disappointment.

Like that day when his parents left and never bothered to come back, always busy, busy, busy. Cutting off mid-sentence on their calls and promising to call back but never doing it, even when he waits and waits and waits. Never knowing what he wants or what he likes- never even knowing who their own son is. 

Always busy. Just like Miwa now.

He should say something.

He _knows_ he should say something.

But he doesn’t.

And just like that, they drift apart.

_(Perhaps that’s when everything started to feel wrong.)_

…

“What position do you want, Tobio?” 

He thinks. Thinks of the weight of the ball in his hands, the color that explodes in his chest, the energy that races through his veins. Thinks of the ball, high, high above everything else, rotating, over and over and over again, flying, like a bird without wings, like an object without expectations, without limitations, something that might be a little bit like _freedom_. He thinks of the court and the net and the feeling of the sturdy wood beneath his shoes, the feeling of the air, pushing him up, the feeling of his muscles, burning, burning, but burning so very bright until he feels like he is fire, like he is a phoenix, and nothing can cut him down.

He thinks, about that world, where he can be somebody who’s not Kageyama Tobio, somebody who’s not anything. Where he can be nothing but a boy, a boy and a ball, a boy who is so, very alive, a boy with a deep-running passion, roaring and flickering beneath his skin.

“The one that touches the ball the most.” He replies, and Kazuyo looks at him with soft eyes that crinkle at the corners and lips that pull up into something so very gentle and so very tender. The DVD is still going on the screen, but there is something entrancing in the air, as they stare at each other.

“That would be the setter.” Kazuyo says, and something big and bright and perfect slots into place in Kageyama’s chest. Volleyball has always felt magnetic, electric, something that fills him with the lightest of feelings, the brightest of thoughts.

“Setter, then.” He says, into the void, into the sun, into the world.

_(Kageyama wonders, when he looks back into these memories where the world shimmers like stars, if his grandfather had somehow known that this would all happen, had somehow known that he would end up here, when he had first bestowed him that title he has come to embrace like second nature, a title that has become something of who he is: setter.)_

…

He watches a match, and the lights are blinding and the seats uncomfortable, but everything washes away when they start to play. 

The ball flies in the air, determined shouts echo, sweat shimmers on foreheads.

Kageyama watches as the players spread their wings, and they _fly._

For those long and yet inexplicably short moments, when he watches them run and roll and hit the ball, over and over and over again, never giving up, never going down, never letting themselves let go of that tightly wound passion, beating in their chests, he knows.

He knows that they love it.

That they love volleyball.

He _knows_ , and for a moment, as he watches them fly like it’s the easiest thing in the world, he feels like he’s flying with them, high in the sky where nobody can ever see him, nobody can ever find him, where all that’s left is the sweat and the court and the ball.

Where it’s only him, and this sport he’s come to love with all of his being.

…

“Where’s Kazuyo-kun?” He asks Miwa, and she doesn’t even look up. She just stares down at her paper _(busy, busy, busy)_ , twirls her pencil in her fingers, fiddles with her hair, stuffed in a messy bun at the top of her head, and answers, bored.

“Did you forget? Today’s one of the days he goes to the hospital.”

He clutches the volleyball to his chest, thinks nothing of it, and he turns away.

_(He should have known, then. He should have known, many, many times._

_And perhaps some part of him did know. Perhaps some part of him knew, like he knew the sun was bright and the sky was blue and his parents were never there- perhaps he knew._

_Perhaps he just didn’t want to know.)_

…

He plays volleyball at school.

The wind ruffles his hair and the ball seems to inflate a little in his hands. 

The world explodes with color, with the red of crackling flames, both life and indescribable destruction, the innocence of roses, swaying in the wind, the scent of ash, clinging to the air. It dances with orange, like a sunset after a long day, showering the sky with an array of color, melding into it, messy and yet so, very perfect. It shimmers with yellow, an unforgiving sun, melting through the sky, a thousand sunflowers stretching up, up, the sight of a thousand stars, winking back amidst the night. It sways with green, the fresh scent of grass, prickly beneath your feet, the cool touch of nature, seeping through the scenery. It cascades with blue, the light, swirling blue of a spring sky, the deep, dark blue of the kiss of water, rippling against your skin, the quiet and yet echoing roar of a whale in the darkest parts of the ocean. It sings with purple, the breathtaking lilac touch of a field of hyacinths, the chilling feel of the most royal of velvet, billowing in the wind like a King’s robes. It hums with brown, the support of a great tree, withstanding the pulls of time, always steady, always strong. It vibrates with black, the shadows flickering on a moonless night, the deepest night sky, when the world is silent, but the sky sings with such a haunting melody. It beats with white, an empty nothingness, calm and soothing like the moon, shimmering amidst the dark abyss.

The court is ablaze with color.

Everything that makes this world as breathtaking as it is.

Sunsets and flowers and trees and the ocean. Fire and beauty and wind and freedom. Shadows and stars and midnight and ash. The sun and the moon and the sky and the grass.

Kageyama knows that it’s weird, that it’s strange, but he can feel the world, beating in the court, living in the ball. He senses the beauty in every movement, the barely tangible and yet so very prominent joy that simmers in the air like a barbeque on a hot night.

He feels it, and he never wants to let go.

He never wants it to end.

He plays volleyball at school, and when he realizes that the game is almost over, he purposefully lets himself hold back.

He wants to stay.

He wants to stay on the court forever and ever.

_(He still does. He will probably feel that forevermore.)_

…

“If you get stronger, you can keep on playing. You can keep on playing volleyball.” The setting sun bathes Kazuyo awash in fire, flickering flames licking the sides of his face and coming to life in his hair, dancing like the flames of an altar, blazing in his eyes.

“Because when you get stronger, you’ll definitely meet someone stronger than you, right before your eyes.”

His grandfather smiles, and it’s like his heart is a balloon, inflating and inflating, floating higher and higher until it’s above where anybody else can reach, until it stares down at earth from the heavens.

…

He goes to middle school.

There’s Oikawa-san, who is strong and fast and has a jump serve that’s better than anything. There’s Iwaizumi-san, who is determined and calculated and just as strong as Oikawa. 

He competes and tries to improve and runs after their backs, vigorous and untiring, because he wants to become that good someday, he _will_ become that good someday.

He chatters about them at the hospital, rants on and on with Kazuyo about their moves, about their strength, about just how cool they both are, but these days it seems like Kazuyo’s always tired. 

He’s always tired.

_There was... no on-)_

…

Oikawa-san and Iwaizumi-san graduate.

They’re gone.

Kazuyo is still in the hospital.

He runs alone, hears the slap of his feet against the pavement, runs and runs until the sound of everybody else behind him fades away. _(Nobody runs after him.)_

He practices alone, in his backyard, at night, because Miwa is in college _(she doesn’t like volleyball anymore, doesn’t like **him** anymore-)_, and Kazuyo is in the hospital _(tired, tired, tired-)_ , because no one else on his team wants to keep practicing like he does. 

Because they don’t love volleyball as much as he does. 

Because they’re tired. _(Tired, tired, **tired-** )_

He keeps asking, but nobody ever wants to keep going.

Nobody ever _wants-_

 _(Eventually, he stops asking._

_Nobody stays.)_

…

Kazuyo dies.

He’s dead.

Gone.

He wants to laugh. 

He wants to scream. 

He wants to cry. 

He wants to feel something, anything.

Miwa cries.

She cries and she cries and she cries until everything blurs away and all he can hear are her cries, all he can hear is the priest, murmuring useless condolences in the background. She cries until her sobs fade into wails. She cries until he feels empty, like something is digging into his heart with barbed claws, like somebody has ripped a chunk out of his world, his life, his heart. She cries until the colors fade to grey, the world fades to silence, his life fades to this one moment, these agonizing moments, as he stands at the funeral of- of his _grandfather_ \- the man who gave him volleyball, who gave him joy and life and freedom.

The scent of incense is overpowering, and Kageyama has to choke back down the nausea that burns like lava in the back of his throat, except this time, he is being burnt to ashes, the fire blazing through his skin and his eyes and his hair, and he can’t ever recover. There’s a boiling, writhing hole in his chest that is only expanding, further, further, until it slowly absorbs him whole, reaching out with a thousand hands and dragging at his skin and his mouth and his hands, except he doesn't fight it, doesn't have the strength to fight it. It drags him away from reality, away from the pitying gazes of everybody around him, from the sobs of his sister that ring in his ears like a strange melody for a marching band of ghosts as they wail their misery in his ears.

The waves that lap against the shore of his mind rise, higher, higher, before it crashes down on his pathetic form and drags him under, into the murky depths where they throw the trash that nobody wants, that nobody will _ever_ want, for it to rot there, for all of eternity. It sloshes in his eardrums and pulls him around like he is but a ragdoll, shoving its way into his lungs, his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears, choking him upon seas nothing and yet everything until all that’s left of him is a mindless, thoughtless skeleton, going through the movements of life as a sack of skin, haunted and haunting, broken and breaking, empty and barely standing on two trembling legs of mist. 

He can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ , and everything he’s ever known, ever felt, has been shattered.

He blinks, and his sister is crying.

He blinks, and he’s paying his respects.

He blinks, and they’re lowering the casket.

He blinks, and suddenly it’s nighttime, and he’s alone, standing in front of a picture of his grandfather, standing and smiling and bright.

Alive.

He doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t speak.

He just stands there, and tries to feel human again.

Tries to breathe, in for three, out for four.

In, out. 

In, out.

_(There was no one-)_

In, out.

…

Kageyama had learned very early on what it felt like to be lonely. 

But now, he slowly starts to fall, deeper and deeper, sinking neck-deep into the quicksand, the freezing mud, before he is plunged under, before he sinks so far he can’t even see the surface.

And there are days, when he plays volleyball, and sometimes he can dredge himself out of that trench, out of the ringing silence, out of the periods of time when he just- forgets everything and yet the memories haunt him like a crowd of ghosts, screaming in his ears. 

Days, when sometimes he can feel alive again, however small of a thing it is; feel the beat of his heart, in his chest, feel the hints of joy, pushing through this mental wall he’s built around himself like a tower, like a metal prison and yet a protection.

But most of the time, he just falls.

He falls and falls and falls.

He runs. 

He runs and runs and runs, but he can’t feel the wind in his hair, can’t feel the burning in his thighs, can't feel _anything_ until his legs give out beneath him and he falls to the unforgiving cement ground, unable to get up, unwilling to get up, muscles pushed to the point where they no longer feel pain. He runs, but he can’t hear anything but the sound of his own shoes, the sound of his own lungs, heaving in his chest like he is swimming in a sea of carbon monoxide, slowly crushing him, slowly suffocating him- there’s no cacophony of footsteps behind him, no huffed out jokes or shouted challenges, no laughter or freedom, no joy or love- 

There’s nothing.

Nothing at all.

He practices.

He practices and practices. He serves and serves and serves, but there’s no Miwa, no Oikawa, no Iwaizumi, no _Kazuyo_ \- The ball feels heavy in his hands, feels wrong and pressuring, heavy. It feels as heavy as a thousand pounds of weight, dropping in his arms, lifeless and deflated, like chains forcing him onto his knees, dragging him deeper beneath the waves that storm in his mind.

The ball still flies, but it also falls, too. 

There’s no color.

No color anywhere.

No more sunsets and stars and sun. No more wind and sky and freedom. No more joy and love and ocean. No more shadows and grass and fire.

There’s nothing.

Nothing at all.

And yet, he still plays. He sets and he tosses, and he spikes and he serves. He receives and he runs and he strains to feel. He wants to feel the pain, like a thousand suns, exploding beneath his skin, wants to feel the adrenaline, pounding so hard that his veins might burst, wants to feel that excitement, running through his veins again, addicting. Wants to forget, wants to remember. Wants a breath of fresh air, wants a lifeline to appear in this stormy sea that he's slowly drowning in.

He wants.

_~~(He wants Kazuyo back.)~~ _

Volleyball ties him to Kazuyo- to grandfather. Volleyball ties him to love and hurt and pain and joy. Volleyball ties him to the _world._

He hates it- hates the memories, where the sun shines and the wind blows, where the ball flies and he flies with it. Hates the lightning that runs in his veins, the passion that roars in his gut. Hates the court- _fresh wood and worn sneakers, faint sweat- linoleum floors and high ceilings, screeching shoes and towering nets; the lights are bright, the smiles brighter, the ball in his palm warm, his whole body tense and trembling with barely contained euphoria._

He hates it.

Hates the memories, hates the smile that he sees on Kazuyo’s face in the back of his mind, hates the heat that stings behind his eyes, hates the pain, that wails like a monster inside of him, clawing at his guts from the inside-out, seeping acid into his bones, burning him to the ground, drowning him in his own mind.

He hates it.

.  
.  
.

He loves it.

He loves volleyball- loves the colors, loves the excitement, loves the sting after the ball leaves his hands. Loves the shouts, loves the pride that comes with each point, loves every single part- _he can feel the world, beating in the court, living in the ball. He senses the beauty in every movement, the barely tangible and yet so very prominent joy-_

He loves it.

Volleyball.

He hates it, loves it, hates it, loves it, hates it.

He _hates_ it.

He goes home, and there’s nobody there.

There’s empty halls and empty rooms, empty time and empty seats. Empty floors and empty vases. Empty kitchenware and empty shoe-racks. Empty dining tables and empty couches and empty space that _should have been filled._

It’s empty.

All of it.

For Kageyama Tobio, the world changes once again. 

The sun is bright, the sky is blue, his parents are never here, his grandfather is _dead_ , he hates volleyball, and everything- every hallway, every room, every moment- it’s all-

Empty.

_(There was no one th-)_

…

And then, at one point, he becomes obsessed with it.

Volleyball, that is.

He needs to be better, faster, stronger. He needs to toss better, serve better, strike better. He needs to jump higher, run faster, hit harder. 

He realizes that-

That he’s not good enough.

_(“If you get stronger, you can keep on playing. You can keep on playing volleyball.” His grandfather smiles, and he feels-)_

He practices. He practices and practices and practices. He runs and runs and runs until there are scrapes on his knees and his elbows like crimson lines of punishment, for each and every time he trips over the weight of the world on his shoulders and bleeds sluggish liquid all over his skin and his clothes and the darkness that screeches in his mind. He tosses and tosses and tosses until his fingers feel numb, until his mind goes fuzzy and his vision goes blurry at the edges, like some old movie in the cinema, crackling and outdated with nobody there to watch it, to love it. He serves and serves and serves until his arms tremble and sweat runs like poison down his skin, spikes and spikes and spikes until his ears are filled with buzzing and ringing and the sound of his hand striking the ball, over and over and _over again-_

It’s not enough; _he’s not enough-_

He comes home on shaking muscles and spinning sight, on stumbling legs and numb fingers, but the darkness that’s started to consume him, sucking him away like a black hole, only grows and grows and grows where he’s shoved it away in the back of his mind, ignoring it even as it eats him away, biting at him every time he opens the door to dark halls and a house that’s not really home anymore because there’s _nothing there._

There’s always just- 

Nothing.

He tosses.

He tosses and tosses and tosses.

Toss.

Faster.

Toss.

Faster.

Toss.

_Faster._

He shouts. He yells it to the world, to his teammates, to the empty void, the abyss that only grows and grows inside of him, unstoppable, slowly feasting on the remains of who he is; because he doesn’t really remember anymore, what it feels like to just simply love life for what it is, to just simply exist, to play and to love it for what it is. 

He's forgotten.

How to love.

He’s forgotten how to love himself.

Ha.

He screams.

Faster, faster, faster. Stronger, harder, better. 

_Be_ better, _do_ better.

He pushes himself and pushes himself until he can’t remember anything but the pain, but the feeling of unworthiness that roars in his mind, drowning out everything and anything, and he wonders what his grandfather would think, seeing this pathetic being. 

He just wants the darkness to suck him away. For the tide that roars and collides against the shores of his pitiful mind to drag him beneath the surface and _keep_ dragging him deeper and deeper and deeper into the winding, barbed maze of his own tangled sense of self until he forgets who he is and where he is and how to breathe and how exhilarating and terrifying and absolutely _painful_ it is to simply _exist-_

_(Would you be proud? Would you? Would you?)_

He demands and he demands and he demands, and he hates himself. He hates himself for being so weak, so dumb, so dead. He hates himself for all the times his knees give out on him, for all the scars that slowly start to make themselves known on his skin, red cuts, deep and long, thin and short, wide and bleeding. Red cuts, crisscrossing like a maze of failure, a maze where he's trapped and he can never find his way out because there _is_ no way out. 

He hates himself for the way his skin feels too big and his house feels too small. Hates himself for the way volleyball is starting to feel suffocating, to feel terrifying and horrible and like someone is beating at the back of his head, wailing to be let out, wailing to let this all just-

End.

There’s bile on his tongue and spiders over his skin. Knives in his muscles and fire in his bones. Acid sloshing in his stomach and a howling void of nothing where everything he ever was used to be. There’s ashes in his mind and monsters whispering in his ears, weariness dragging at his shoulders and ghosts pulling at his hands. His eyes feel like they’re sinking into his skull, melting into his skin, and sometimes he just wants to throw his head into a wall, again and again and _again_ until there’s wet heat, dripping down his neck, staining his hair red, red, red, and he doesn’t have to be this wretched wreck of a human, this pathetic excuse of an athlete.

Sometimes he wants to sleep and he wants to sleep until he never wakes up, sleep until he doesn’t have to remember anything, doesn’t have to be anything, doesn’t have to live in this world where everything is empty and the colors are muted, soaked away into a never-ending expanse of grey.

Sometimes he wants to stand at the edge of the roof and just sit. Sit and sit and sit until he becomes something like stone, unmoveable, untouchable, and yet so easy to break. Sit until the world bears down on him and turns him to dust, sit until the wind blows his remains away and scatters him into nothing but blurred memories and broken photographs and an abyss of loss, forever engraved within his being in a story of remorse.

The sun is dark, the sky is grey, his parents are never home, everything is empty, and Kageyama hates himself more than anything in this world.

He demands the world, but what he truly wants to demand, _who_ he truly wants to demand is himself.

Toss.

“Faster!” He shouts, but it’s _his_ fault, it’s _himself_ that has to be faster, be _better._

Toss.

“Faster!”

He’s never good enough.

He hates himself.

He hates volleyball.

Loves it, hates it, hates it, _hates_ it.

_“Faster!”_

He turns around, and his ball falls. 

It falls and falls and falls.

_(There was-)_

He falls with it, into this place that’s dark and empty and haunting. This place where he loses sight of who he is and what he wants to be and what it means to be alive. This place where life becomes something closer to death. This place where he can no longer feel anything, because really, truly, there’s nothing. 

Nothing at all.

_(-Nobody there.)_

…

He turns around, and there’s nobody there.

_(Maybe there was nobody from the start. Maybe he was never meant to have anybody, to **love anybody-** )_

…

_(He sits on the bench, eyes fixed on the floor. The sounds of the match sound far away, like he is miles and miles away from it all when really he is only inches away. The floor is scratched and worn. It smells like fresh wood and worn sneakers, faintly like sweat. Like the world and the joy and the love that breathes life in his memories. Like this feeling, digging into his chest and his lungs and stealing what little air he has left._

_He falls._

_Deeper and farther than he's ever fallen before._

_There’s nobody there._

_Nobody._

_He falls._

_He doesn't stop falling._

_He can't stop falling._

_He can't stop it anymore._

_He sits on the bench, stares at the floor, presses the cloth to his face to hide the shaking in his fingers, the yawning abyss that’s just swallowed him whole, taking with it anything he may have ever been._

_He sits on the bench, stares at the floor and thinks, maybe he should just…_

_Maybe it would be better if he just...)_

…

Maybe it would be better if he just-

.  
.  
.

Died.

…

He doesn’t get into Shiratorizawa.

He spends summer break on a rooftop, sitting on the edge and staring down, down, down, wondering how much it would hurt if he fell. Wondering if God would give him the mercy to just die, painless, swift and fast, so that he could just let it all go- the emptiness, the sorrow, _volleyball-_

Wondering if God would give him the mercy to meet his grandfather one last time, feel the joy of volleyball just one last time.

Feel alive, just one last time.

_(Would you be proud? Would you? Would you?)_

He sits.

He watches the sun rise and fall. 

It dyes his eyes gold and his hair with a sliver of silver. Everything looks regal, bathed in shades of yellow and gold and red and orange. 

The shadows stretch behind the buildings that seem to melt like honey, into the ground, into the soil, into the magma, that he knows is bubbling under the surface, under his skin, choking him, burning him, filling his lungs with ash- he can’t breathe, hasn’t _been able_ to breathe since that day, when he stared down at the grave of his grandfather and cursed it; cursed the world, for moving on, the sun, for shining on, and volleyball, for the simple fact that it caused him pain, echoing in the cavern of his chest, prickling at his skin like a thousand needles, poking and prodding until he just wanted to let them stab him, again and again and _again._

He cursed the world and the sun and _volleyball_ ; he cursed anything and everything he could ever think of. 

Since that day when he collapsed on the side of the road after running and running and _running_ \- and didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to _keep_ getting up, didn’t want to go on like this.

He hasn’t been able to breathe.

Sometimes it feels like he won’t ever be able to breathe, won’t ever be able to swim above the surface.

The sun rises.

It’s peaceful.

Quiet.

It’s so, so, easy to lose himself within the memories.

To lose himself in the sorrow and the shadows that creep over his knees and winds around his wrists.

To lose himself within the world, big and expanding and suffocating.

Within his house, too big and too small, too wide and too short, too close and yet too far. Within his room, too bright and too dark, too real and too fake, too cluttered and too-

Empty.

Within himself, too sad and too lost, too broken and too hollow, too emotionless and too blunt, too full of grief and yet too-

Empty.

He spends summer on a roof.

He almost dies, that summer. Lets himself fall.

Fall, like he’s done a million times.

Fall, like the volleyball he loves, hates, loves so, so, very much.

Fall, like perhaps he was always meant to do.

He spends summer on a roof.

It’s hot and stifling, the wind too harsh, the railing too cold, too hard, too uncomfortable. His legs go numb when he sits for too long, and his eyes water when he stares at the sun like it could reach down right this moment and burn his skin, but it doesn’t stop there- it keeps burning and burning and burning until everything, all the memories, the pain, the emptiness just melts away to nothing, keeps burning and burning until even the bones that shiver beneath his muscles and wail beneath his skin drift away to nothing. 

His head spins and his heart stutters and sometimes he just doesn’t want to keep breathing.

_(He sits on the bench, stares at the floor and thinks, maybe it would be better if he just-)_

He spends summer on a roof.

But for some reason, he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t fade away.

_(Would you be proud? Would you? Would you?)_

…

He ends up at Karasuno, in some twist of fate.

And he contemplates it.

Not playing volleyball.

Quitting.

Quitting, just like Miwa. Quitting, just like everybody else.

Leaving this part of his soul and his past and his world behind him, throwing away this sliver of happiness, this mountain of pain into the trash, never to look behind again. 

He considers it, just like he considers the creeping shadows that wind around his wrists, considers standing on top of the world, on top of the roof, and just letting himself-

_(“If you get stronger, you can keep on playing. You can keep on playing volleyball.” His grandfather smiles, and it’s like his heart is a balloon, inflating and inflating, floating higher and higher until it’s above where anybody else can reach, until it stares down at earth from the heavens.)_

He’s signed himself into the club before he even realizes it.

He has a chance to take it back, a chance to back away, a chance to let himself wither away to nothing.

A chance to let it all end.

He doesn’t.

_(There was no one-)_

…

The orange-haired- Hinata, was it- tells him that setter is a boring position.

_(“The one that touches the ball the most.” He replies, and Kazuyo looks at him with soft eyes that crinkle at the corners and lips that pull up into something so very gentle and so very tender-)_

And suddenly, there is anger, building in his mind, anger, stinging against his eyes. 

He is a setter, he is the control tower of the court, he is the one that brings the ball to the air, lets the ball fly, so that the spiker can _win_. He is the one that throws, so that someone can leap, throws, so that someone can break through the walls, spread their wings, and _fly._

He is a setter, and he is the wings for the spiker- the feathers that keep everything afloat, keep the spiker and the ball and the play afloat, so that they can play and they play until they can win. He is a setter, and he is the one that touches the ball the most, the one that lives and breathes and _loves_ the most, the one that is often overlooked- but regardless is the one that is, objectively important. The spike doesn’t come without the toss, the toss doesn’t come with the receive, and the receive doesn’t come without the serve. In volleyball, where everything is connected, where you can fly only because of someone else; saying that one player is better than the other is the most idiotic thing someone can ever say.

He is a setter, and he is important. He lives when the ball flies, breathes when the ball rotates there, high above his head, like a miniature sun, like a small world, bright and beautiful and-

Perfect.

He is a setter- _was_ a setter.

He _used to_ live, for the sensation of the ball, warm in his hands. For the control that he knows he has as he tosses, high and lofty, close to the net or far, behind or in front, anywhere in the court, he will bring the ball right to the awaiting hands of the spiker.

He used to love it.

Volleyball.

Being a setter.

The words spill out, and then he’s telling him, this idiotic, short child who dreams of being a spiker- he's telling him all about being a setter, being the one that lets everybody fly- the ball fly.

He’s telling him about his childhood, about his past, about his _life_. He’s telling him all about that thing he shared with Kazuyo- with his grandfather.

He’s telling him about this thing that he is no longer able to feel, this thing that he can no longer bring himself to believe, to love.

He’s telling him about what had used to be the core of his being, the blood that beat in his heart.

He’s telling him, and some part of him wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to force himself past this glass barrier he's created around himself, wants to push his way above the surface, where the sun shines and the wind blows, where people can laugh, where people can be _free_.

Some part of him wants to _love_ again.

_(He sits on the bench, stares at the floor, and thinks, maybe it would be better if he just…)_

Some part of him wants to unlock the door, open it, be able to look the world and the pain and the emptiness right in the face, and say: _I’m home._

_(There was **no one-** )_

…

He’s in the middle of a match, and his head spins, around and around like a mini-carousel, around and around until he is dizzy, around and around until he is lost within his own self. 

Does he even want to be in this club?

Does he even want to be a setter anymore?

Does he even love… volleyball anymore?

_(Would you be proud? Would you? Would you?)_

Does he?

He’s about to toss to some upperclassmen with a bald head, about to throw the ball up, like he’s done so many times before, the movement ingrained in his mind, when-

_“I’M HERE!”_

He turns-

_(There was…)_

Hinata is there, mid-jump, hand raised to spike, and there’s something in his eyes, something in his gaze that has Kageyama trembling because-

_(No one there…)_

Because he looks like he used to, before it’d become empty halls and empty courts. Empty breaths and an empty life.

Because he knows that he- Hinata- loves it.

Volleyball.

More than anything else.

.  
.  
.

Kageyama had learned very early on what it felt like to be lonely. 

_(But when he turns back, and just **looks** across those few yards, so long and yet so short, there, at the front gate of his new school, Kazuyo stares back at him-)_

He looks back-

_(There was no one **there-** )_

And he’s there.

Hinata is _there._

The ball comes to him.

He tosses it up in the air, and as he watches it spin in the air, bright and flying and real, as Hinata slams his hand into it, as the smack of the ball against the court rings in his ears, all he can feel is the touch of the ball against his fingers, the feeling of throwing it up high, high, higher. 

He tosses the ball into the air, and something snaps back to life inside of him.

…

Kageyama hates himself.

He hates himself more than anything.

_(He sits on the bench, stares at the floor, and thinks, maybe it would be better if-)_

He hates it- himself, volleyball, the court. Hates the emptiness, the loneliness, that pierces through him no matter how many times he is greeted with it. Hates the memories, the joy, because they’re something of the past, something long gone that he will never be able to touch ever again.

He hates it.

Himself.

Volleyball.

_(Would you be proud? Would you? Would you?)_

The void sucks at him now more than ever, tries to drag him past that point from which he can never return from, but when he turns around-

They’re there.

 _He’s_ there.

_(He thinks back, years later, and wonders if he can ever find a place where he can belong again, a place that he could once again call ‘home’.)_

And he thinks, maybe, just maybe, this is alright.

Maybe, he can find that place again.

Maybe, he can love it again.

Himself.

Volleyball.

Because when he stands there, on the court, he turns around and-

And it’s not empty.

Not anymore.

And sometimes he still feels it. He goes to his house, and it’s empty; empty rooms, empty pictures, empty seats. The backyard is filled by him and him alone, _has been_ filled by him and him alone by what feels like far too long. Just him and the moon and the grass and the ball. Just him and the monsters that haunt his footsteps.

He still runs alone. His feet slam on the pavement, echo like fists, pounding into the back of his skull. He runs and he runs and he runs, and there’s nobody behind him, nobody _ever_ behind him-

But sometimes, he looks back, and there he is, Hinata, racing behind him like he is somebody worth racing, somebody worth sharing time with, somebody who _matters_ , and when he smiles _like that_ , it reminds him of his grandfather and his heart squeezes so, very painfully.

It hurts.

It still _hurts._

But when he looks back, there are people there. People who have his back.

People who _care._

_(He thinks back, years later, and wonders if he can ever find a place where he can belong again, a place that he could once again call ‘home’.)_

_(Would you be proud?)_

He stands on the court, and when he stares at the backs of his teammates, at the court, shining and bright, and so, very _real_ in front of him- so very colorful, with that familiar scent of fresh wood and worn sneakers, faintly like sweat, this gym, this court, with linoleum floors and high ceilings, screeching shoes and towering nets. This place, where the void in his chest fades away, just a little.

The volleyball feels heavy beneath his fingers.

But he is warm. The court is bright, and it bursts with color.

His teammates laugh.

For the first time in a while, he feels something that might be joy, might be excitement, might be _love_ bubble up in his chest.

Something wet runs down his cheeks, but as he grips his volleyball in his hands, as he stands in this place that he’s come to hate, come to love, more than anything else-

He thinks…

He thinks he might just be-

.  
.  
.

Home.

…

“Let’s play, Kageyama!”

_(Would you be proud?)_

It- everything- used to be-

Empty.

It’s still, sometimes just-

Empty.

But-

_But-_

He looks around, he looks at this child, short and inexperienced, but so, so, passionate, at his teammates, flanking his sides, supporting him, _believing in him._

He looks around, at the court and the color and the ball and the people. The smiles and the laughter and the jokes and the freedom. The passion and the sound and the smell and the joy. The wings that burst from the backs of these people he's come to know better than even _himself,_ and he thinks…

He looks around, and he thinks-

He thinks he might just-

_(He sits on the bench, looks at the floor and-)_

Love it.

Again.

“Yeah, dumbass.” He smiles just a little, the world unraveling in his chest, the universe exploding in his hands, in his fingers, as they clutch at a volleyball, something it feels like he's carried with forever, something that makes up a part of his soul. He stands there, and his lips twitch with the color that busts to life around him, twirling and dancing and singing with all of the beauty the world has to offer. 

He stands there, and just hold this, this moment, this feeling, this _volleyball,_ as it beats with the melody of his heart.

_(Would you be proud?)_

He stands there, and he breathes.

He _lives_.

“Let’s play.”

.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

_(I'm home, grandfather._

_I'm home.)_

.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

**THE END**


	2. fly me home (excerpts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically little excerpts from 'fly me home' that didn't make it to the final cut. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know... I was rewatching Haikyuu!! and got the hungry urge to consume Kageyama-centric angst but couldn't find enough to satisfy me... if any of you guys have any recs that are either Kageyama-centric, angsty, or even better, both, please leave them in the comments.
> 
> Man, I just really want some more Kageyama-centric fics... other authors please... I am struggling here. Give me content. :(

His vision spins darkens and distorts and his legs feel almost nonexistent beneath him. He runs and he runs and he runs until he can barely think above the roar of the rain as it beats his skin black and blue as it fills and fills the empty space that aches inside of him until everything overflows. The pain is a distant pulse in the back of his mind and his thoughts drown in the storm that pours and pours and _pours_. His head and his chest and his heart is empty so Kageyama runs.

He runs until he can't run anymore.

He runs until at some point he realizes that he is lost and wandering a universe made of wailing water and howling wing, runs until he realizes that he needs to go _home_ but he isn't quite sure where that is anymore.

He runs until his chest tightens and his eyes burn with something that Kageyama can't explain and he runs until he feels as though he may cease to exist.

He runs until the world is too loud and too bright and too _much_. Until he can't handle everything and it just crashes over him and drags him around, around, until he _can't-_

A car honks, the vibrations roaring through his mind like the shattering of glass, the rain pours, and Kageyama stops, in between some place that he doesn't know and another where all he can do is sink.

The world screams in his ears, the rain pours, drenching him until all he can feel is the visceral cold, and Kageyama closes his eyes, and starts his long trudge back home.

.  
.  
.

His fingers slip as he tries to find the key to his house. 

The streets are empty. 

The light on the corner of the street flickers, flashing the rain a brilliant gold before casting the world into shadow.

Light.

Shadow.

Light.

Shadow.

Some part of Kageyama wants to scream. Wants to roar. Wants to rage. Wants to cry until there's nothing left of him anymore. Wants to pound his fists into the unforgiving concrete until they're bruised and scratched and bleeding and he doesn't have to be like _this_ anymore.

He opens the door.

He steps inside, but only feels colder than before. The door shuts behind him and everything falls silent- the roar of the rain and the overwhelming scream of everything around him- he steps inside, shuts the door, and then there is nothing. The hallway is dark. There's no light in the kitchen, no sound of the age-old DVDs playing on repeat in the background, no sound of Miwa's annoying music of Kazuyo's rambunctious laugh.

Outside there is rain and storms and wailing **sound** that makes Kageyama want to sink to his knees and start to shriek. Inside there is-

Inside there is nothing.

He doesn't know which he prefers.

"Tadaima." He says but who is he speaking to? Is it the wall on the other side of the hall, the dusty school awards that state MIWA KAGEYAMA or the even dustier volleyball ones that pale in comparison? Is it the dark light bulb in the ceiling, the shoe cabinets that hold shoes for three when really there should only be one? Is it the wooden tiles on the floor, the empty chairs and couches in the living room, the pitch-black rooms, hollow and dead, the picture of smiling faces that almost seem like ghosts in the darkness?

'I'm home.' He says, but it means _nothing._

The water inside of him overflows and overflows until it drains out of him like there was nothing there at all. Kageyama stands there, silent and unmoving, as if he is just another part of this house, worn and shadow-stretched and stiff, devoid of the life it used to hold. His hands shake. His mind is blank. Someone carves and carves and carves inside of him until he feels thin and used and worthless.

He stands in a house that means nothing, says nothing, and _is_ nothing.

The picture stares back at him, inked with midnight, shadows flickering across its length until it strips away all of the joy and the light and the memories, until it's nothing but a heavy feeling that never feels and a tug in his stomach as he sinks lower and lower and lower until he feels almost inhuman, until he feels as if the world had never existed at all and he was just a soul, wandering a fake land made of fake trees and fake people and fake emotions that rip and beat against his mind. Until he hollows and empties and withers.

His chest caves and his lungs may not be there anymore and there is nothing left inside of him.

He wonders if he will ever feel again.

If he _could_ feel again.

Miwa smiles, in the picture.

So does Kazuyo.

So does he.

Kageyama slides to the floor, wet and heavy with rain, heavy with all the things that sit upon his shoulders and tug him down, down, down. He slides to the floor, puts his head between his knees, and lets the rain and the emptiness and the cavity in his chest eat away at him until all that remains is darkness.

.  
.  
.

The frying pan is heavier than he thought it would be. It weighs down in his fingers and it's all Kageyama can do to try not to drop it. He gingerly places the pan on the stove, but feels as if he isn't doing it right. The clang of the pan against the metal of the stove echoes. The silence that comes after grips at his mind.

A long time ago, Kageyama remembers that Kazuyo used to cook. He would bustle around the kitchen, singing some over the top radio song and constantly put way too much sugar and salt in their food. Miwa would always complain, but Kageyama hadn't minded much. After Kazuyo had started going to the hospital, Miwa had started to cook. She had liked to dance around the kitchen, and he remembers how she had always had little cuts on her fingers- tens of small bandages with stars on them hiding knife-cuts. Her food had been spicy, and just a tad too sweet, just how they both liked it.

Kageyama remembers how lively it had been then. When Kazuyo had cooked, he had lounged around the kitchen and watched with curious eyes and Kazuyo had laughed and guffawed and ruffled his hair. Miwa had done her homework at the kitchen table and she'd roll her eyes, but she'd smile nonetheless. Even when Miwa had cooked, there had always been some kind of sound, some kind of smile, some kind of laughter that would penetrate the air and make the world _gleam._

Now, it's Kageyama that stands at the stove, a too-short apron covering his shirt.

It's silent.

Suffocating.

Kageyama had never liked to sing or dance. He'd never even really liked to talk, either. He always preferred to be silent, feeding off of the vibrant energy around him, off of the smiles and laughter and singing and dancing. He would never do anything of his own, but he would always smile quietly and capture the perfect moment in the back of his mind.

But now, he stands alone in the kitchen, clueless and silent and suffocating. He doesn't know how to chop vegetables or fry anything. He doesn't know how to boil noodles or where the salt is. He doesn't know how much of what he should put in or what he should even put in in the first place. He doesn't know _anything_ and there's _nobody here to help him_. 

Sometimes it feels like there's nobody ever there at all. 

He manages to find an egg. It's a week old- expired, really, and he probably shouldn't eat it, but it's all he's got and the only thing that he even has an inkling of how to make, so he picks it up as if it might crumble beneath his fingers and brings it to the pan. 

He doesn't know how to do this.

Does he crack the egg now or later? Does he turn on the stove before or after cracking the egg into the pan? How do you crack eggs in the first place?

The kitchen table behind him is empty. The house radiates with silence; a type of hollow emptiness that soaks into the ground and hums in the air and drifts through Kageyama's mind. The egg in his hands stares back at him. Quiet and small and lonely. Kageyama feels too big for his skin.

Too small for this house.

He can't breathe.

He turns on the stove. The sounds cracks through the silence and Kageyama feels as though a single feather could touch him and he could break. He thinks that he's seen his sister pour oil in the pan so he pours. He doesn't know how much so he pours until the oil coats a thick layer on the bottom of the pan. 

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

The egg is smooth and round and tiny in the palm of his hand. Kageyama feels as if something is squashing him flat. He is lost and lost and lost and he doesn't know what he's doing anymore. Doesn't know who he is anymore. He feels like an intruder in his own home, standing there stupidly in the middle of the kitchen and clutching an egg as if it could save him, as if it could come to life and grant him a wish so he could turn back time and _bring everything back. ___

____

____

So that he could fill the emptiness again.

So that he could feel alive again.

_Human_ again.

The egg stares back at him, brownish and speckled and expired.

And that's all it is. 

An egg.

There is nothing left in this house but a wandering, broken soul, objects with no owner, and the volleyballs scattered around that tell the story of an empty past.

He thinks back on his sister, outlined by the window in the kitchen, feet tapping in dance on the floor as her hands create life. Thinks back on Kazuyo, illuminated in the sunlight, singing loudly as he cooks breakfast. He thinks back on the memories that glow like embers in his mind and try not to fall into them, lose himself within them.

He thinks back and he lifts the egg. He tries to bring it down on the edge of the pan, like his sister did it- soft and fluid and with a gentle flick of her wrist.

It shatters and the insides explode outwards, splattering in every direction until the entire stove is a mess of slimy yolk. The oil in the pan sizzles loudly and angrily, so much so that Kageyama thinks that it might burn the house down. The oil jumps and flips and stings at his skin like fire.

For a moment, Kageyama stands there, in the middle of a mess, in the sudden echoing pain that grips his chest and his lungs, and some part of him has stopped breathing.

It's too much.

For a moment, Kageyama wants to cry.

He takes a breath that doesn't feel real, gets another egg, and tries again.

It breaks.

Again.

It doesn't break enough.

Again.

He tries to crack it over the pan but instead all the pieces of the eggshell drop into the pan and the oil sloshes and sizzles and screams at his skin.

The house is empty, the pan sizzles, Kageyama is coated in egg yolk and the kitchen is a mess.

He still can't breathe.

He tries to take a step but his feet slip out from under him, catching on the mess of yolk and eggs and shells on the ground and he falls, his arms scrabbling for purchase on the slippery counter. He lets out a startled yell as he meets the ground painfully, a sharp, stinging pain radiating out from his rear, and not a second later the remaining eggs in his packet slip from the counter and crack against his head and his torso and his feet, coating the last clean spaces of ground in the kitchen.

The yolk drips down his head, cold and slimy, dripping through his hair and down his face. He's covered in eggshells.

His body aches and hurts. The yolks drips and drips and drips. The silence overwhelms him.

Nobody comes to help.

.  
.  
.

He manages to toast some bread without burning it too much. It's charred and black and looks as if his teeth might break on it but at least it seems edible.

So he gets a plate, puts the pitiful piece of bread on his plate, and sits at the kitchen table.

Alone.

He remembers that he would like to sit in the corner, and Kazuyo would sit with his back to the kitchen window because he would laugh and say _I'm an old man! I need the warmth of the sun against my back!_. He remembers that Miwa would like to sit next to him, facing Kazuyo, because that was the closest seat to the hairdryer, and in the mornings, if Kazuyo finished breakfast before she finished drying she could sit at the table and dry her hair. He remembers that he liked to sit in the corner because that was where he could see both of them the best; the place where he could take in their voices and their smiles and their jokes the best. Where he could store them in his heart the best.

He sits in the corner.

There is nobody else.

The lights are turned on, but the kitchen feels dark.

He suddenly doesn't feel hungry anymore. But he knows he has to eat. Knows he has to keep his strength up. He knows.

He _knows_.

The kitchen is a mess in front of him. The seats are empty.

So is his heart. His entire being.

He feels... so much, and yet nothing at all.

For a long moment, he fights the urge to walk away from it all- the urge to sit in his room with all the lights off and just bury himself in the corner where nobody will ever find him; bury himself until he never has to come out and face this kitchen and this house and this hollow feeling that follows him around and turns him into a ghost, turns him into someone who has lost himself and lost his will and lost _everything._

He sits.

He opens, his mouth, and tries to take a bite.

It crumbles to ash on his tongue.

.  
.  
.

In the end, he throws it out. He can't eat it. It's too much.

So he sets about washing the plate, his fingers slipping and pouring too much dishwashing soap and his mind tosses and turns. The sink water won't come out strong so he fights with the tap, trying to push it higher, some vague memory tugging at his mind where Miwa complained and complained and complained about the sink. The tap won't open, the soap is too slippery, and _it's just too much_.

He's drenched in water as he tries to fight the tap, his shirt soaked and his hair dripping and his eyes blurry. Something hot and wet and _not water_ drips down his cheeks, burning a blazing line from his eyes down, down, down, to the very bottom of this endless pit that Kageyama is slowly sinking in. He can't breathe- he's gasping and heaving but he feels as if he's drowning in something bigger than himself, something that screams in his ears with the silence that _haunts_.

He can't handle this. His skin feels too small and too big and too full of that broken _ache_.

He _can't-_.

Kazuyo, Miwa, _please, I can't-_

_I miss you-_

Come _back to me-_

_I hate you-_

_Hate you-_

_Hate you, you, **you-**_

_~~I hate myself.~~ _

The plate slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor, loud and roaring and terrifying.

Kageyama grips his head with soap-covered fingers, his entire body soaked with soap and water and _hurt_ and sinks to the floor, unable to breathe, unable to stop the tears that pour from his eyes like wretched rain. 

The house is empty.

Nobody comes to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk... I feel like these excerpts were kinda bad. I'm not sure what I think of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it??? 
> 
> idk I was struggling with writer's block and then I was like, no, I have to write this, so I did except it didn't exactly turn out how I wanted it to.
> 
> Anyways, yeah.
> 
> I kinda wanted to edit more but really, I'm way too lazy so... if you come back to this fic in the future and find that it's kinda different, I probs edited it, like, finally.
> 
> (Oh hey and btw, i finally made a Tumblr for my writing lol! I have literally no clue what I'm doing but i'd appreciate if you guys could check it out???
> 
> https://klixxy.tumblr.com/
> 
> idk how to link things on here...)


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